


The Truth is Out There [on Netflix]

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 16:24:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11467272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: One-shot written for @thing-you-do-with-that-thing Kari’s Favorite Things Challenge with prompt – The X-Files. Castiel searches for the truth of the human condition on Netflix…with a little help from his friends and a pair of fictional FBI agents who exemplify something it turns out he very much wants to believe. Off-beat humor and saccharine fluff.





	The Truth is Out There [on Netflix]

The fateful day Sam instructed Castiel how to go about accessing Netflix was the day life in the bunker irrevocably changed. When not assisting with a case, the angel could reliably be found in his room binge watching yet another series, or two. You often tarried at the threshold of his ajar door on the way to bed to appreciate the television illuminated enraptured dopey smile glowing upon his normally austere features. Frequently you surrendered to the temptation to join him, swiftly drifting to sleep listening not to the television, but to his gentle laughter. He didn’t seem to mind the company, regularly and uncomplainingly obliging the use of his shoulder as a makeshift pillow when your drowsy head rolled sideways. Generally speaking, you were happy he found something to distract him from his myriad of woes and fill his long no-sleep-required angelic nights, not to mention the perfect pretext to spend more downtime with him without drawing unwanted notice and subsequent teasing from Sam and Dean.

The angel’s initial viewing preferences mostly leaned toward comedic sitcoms and classic slap-stick thanks to Dean’s belief that Cas needed to lighten up and a worldly anecdote about laughter being the best medicine. Innocent enough suggestions until Cas spent an entire week indicating every instance wherein a laugh track insertion would be appropriate in daily life. He even downloaded an app on his phone to further illustrate the point. Dean, the recipient of the lion’s share of this attention, was not amused. The last straw came when Cas stood by during a tense alleyway confrontation with their on-again off-again ally Crowley, pointing out with a gravelly _there, there, and there again_ whenever the King of Hell made a particularly witty retort. Grasping his friend very firmly by the shoulder, Dean informed Cas, in no uncertain terms lest the angel not understand, exactly where he could hilariously shove his proverbial laugh track. Crowley never before, or again, regarded his angelic counterpart with such high esteem as he did during that meeting.

Sam had the brilliant idea of filling the angel’s watch queue to the brim with documentaries. Castiel, already a walking celestial encyclopedia of all-encompassing universal knowledge, day-by-day became swayed by one extreme opinion after another. First, it was the evils of sugar. The angel took it upon himself one evening to smite every last granule of the substance from the kitchen while you all slept, blissfully unaware there would be no morning breakfast cereal when you awoke or sweet crystalline delight to dump into your bitter coffee. You habituated to hiding in the bathroom with the shower running to mask the sound of contented chewing to enjoy your favorite cookies free from the angel’s icy blue disapproving glare. Dean began keeping pie in the Impala’s glovebox, by happy accident discovering apple pie stored in a car sitting in direct afternoon sun was nearly as delicious as one pulled piping hot from the oven. Sam walked around with a smug grin for a whole week, soaring mood squelched only when Cas sternly questioned him about the provenance of his salad greens. Were they genetically modified? Was he aware of the pesticides used in their production and their impact on the drastically dwindling bee population? The land destroyed in the manufacture of the palm oil listed as the fifth ingredient in his favored salad dressing? Was that salmon topping his heaping bowl of wrongs wild caught, or farmed?

Amidst threats by the thoroughly vexed parent-figure Winchesters to cancel Netflix altogether and a sulking Castiel dejectedly retreating to his room like a grounded teenager, you interceded, promising the brothers you would find something totally innocuous for the angel to watch. You weren’t giving up your late night snuggle fests, that conveniently no one thus far had identified as snuggling, without a fight. Netflix received a temporary stay of execution. Stifling a victorious squeal, cloaked in a mask of utter calm, you slunk from the library to apprise Cas of the good news, pace quickening to an enthusiastic scamper when you rounded the corner out of the brothers’ sight. Neither Sam nor Dean were fooled by the feigned disinterest of your demeanor – your amorous interest in the angel practically a flashing neon sign to everyone but the aforementioned oblivious angel. They exchanged a knowing glance, punctuated by Dean’s signature smirk and Sam’s husky laughter – the socially stumbling stoical seraph was your problem now.

“There is no such thing as little green men,” Cas said, narrowing his ocean blue eyes. Nearly five seasons into a marathon viewing of _The X-Files_ , and the angel couldn’t get past the alien mythology behind the show.

As far as you were concerned, he was missing the whole point. “Ugh,” you grunted. Sat cross-legged side-by-side with the angel on the floor at the end of the bed, you flopped against the edge of the mattress, “you do realize you sound exactly like Dana Scully. How can you be so certain, oh skeptical one?”

“Because, there is no such creature in creation,” he stated matter-of-factly, expression earnest as he peered into your exasperated aspect, “I was there almost at the dawn, and I am fairly certain God didn’t create little green men before he created angels.”

“It’s a fictional world Cas,” you lamented, “it’s not about the aliens. Ever hear of suspension of disbelief for entertainment’s sake? Mulder wants desperately to believe there is a tangible explanation for his missing sister. It’s the great unknown of his life. Speculating gives him hope, something to hold on to, to chase. He’s broken, he has made mistakes, he’s doing the best he can in an imperfect world.” You realized after the last word lilted off your tongue that perhaps Mulder’s plight might hit a bit close to home for the angel.

“I understand,” Cas murmured, bobbing his scruffy chin thoughtfully, “then you value this show not for the accurateness of its subject matter, but for its depiction of the primary characters.”

“Yes, exactly!” you beamed. “And, you know, the complexity of their relationship.”

Cas squinted, his bewilderment palpably hanging in the air between you.

You suggestively waggled your eyebrows, “You know…the tension.”

“Ah,” Cas nodded comprehension, “you mean their continually dissenting opinions.”

“No Cas,” you shook your head, “I mean the sexual tension. Mulder and Scully are madly in love.”

The angel could not have appeared more gob-smacked than if you’d suddenly sprouted an additional big blinking eye in the center of your forehead.

“Look,” you snatched the remote, “I’ll just find a program more in your wheelhouse.” Clearly enjoying fantastic multi-layered character-driven sci-fi drama was off the scale of the angel’s emotional barometer and reading between the lines was not a skill he possessed with any degree of fluency. Maybe something in the realm of mystery like _Murder She Wrote_ was a better option? Maybe a procedural cop drama a la _N.Y.P.D. Blue_?

Cas’ rough palm clasped over yours to prevent you from turning the episode off. “Please,” he entreated when you met his searching sapphire regard, “explain it to me. I want to understand.”

“O-okay,” you stuttered, focus dropping to his hand still holding yours.

He sheepishly withdrew the interloping appendage to rest in his lap.

“Um, it’s, uh,” you gaped, endeavoring to rally your thoughts beyond the lingering warmth of his touch tingling your fingers.

“I recognize they deeply respect one another,” the angel offered.

You nodded.

“And they would do anything to help one another,” he continued.

You kept nodding.

“And they make great personal and professional sacrifices to remain together as partners,” the tone of his voice rose, suggesting the waters of his perception here became muddied.

You looked to be exuberantly auditioning for the part of a life-sized bobble-head figurine.

“Yet they seem to me to be no more than friends,” he sighed, slouching against the bed in defeat of his own reasoning.

You reigned in your wildly bobbing noodle to articulate a reply, “For a long time they value their friendship too much to risk complicating it, but that doesn’t mean they love each other any less fiercely.”

“For a long time?” Cas lifted a brow askance.

“Spoiler warning,” you cautioned, “their relationship does become romantic, but as it turns out they were always much better friends. They each have a lot of baggage,” you paused, remembering to clarify so the angel didn’t think you were talking about literal luggage, “I mean, they bring a lot of pained history to the relationship, and it ultimately prevents them from being together that way.”

“And do they regret complicating their friendship with…with this romance?” Cas stared intently at you – oddly eager, in your estimation, for your answer.

You deliberated on your interpretation for a moment, taking into account the movies and the revival season in your verdict, “The way I see it?”

Cas nodded once, blue eyes glinting beneath an increasingly concentrated brow.

“No.”

Features relaxing, he sucked in a relieved, and for an angel, completely unnecessary breath.

“Why do you ask?” you motioned to set the remote on the floor between your bodies.

Cas caught up your hand in his again as you let the remote drop. Twining his fingers through yours, he waited for you to meet his openly adoring gaze before answering, “Because now seems like an appropriate time to tell you I value our friendship…very much.”

“I value our…oh,” your tongue seized, brain playing catch-up to the tender but insistent squeeze of his fingers. “Fiercely?” you whispered, agog.

“Fiercely,” he acknowledged. A soft smile curving his lips, he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your astonished mouth.


End file.
